by David McAfee
10
They stood with their backs to him, two Bachiyr of seemingly local origin to judge by their clothes and their accents. They smelled newly turned, not more than a month dead. The pair stood with their necks bent, looking down at a sobbing woman who lay squirming on the alley floor. One of them chuckled, and the other kicked the woman in the side, eliciting a sharp cry of pain. The smell of blood hung in the air, a tantalizing coppery scent that would have attracted other vampires to the alley like sharks. As it happened, Ramah was the first shark to the scene, and these two vampires would never live to finish the woman off.
He stepped forward, his fangs and claws tucked away for the moment. In truth, Ramah did not need either to deal with the two vampires. He could kill them from a hundred yards away if he chose, but that was less entertaining than spilling their blood in the street with his bare hands. His search for Theron and Taras had thus far proven fruitless, and it would feel good to release some of his irritation on these two renegades.
That the two figures standing in the shadows of the alley were Bachiyr was obvious, but they didn’t look familiar. Granted, he’d been away from the Halls many times, often for months or years at a time, but he still knew most of the other vampires in the world. That was by design. All Bachiyr had to be approved by the Council before they could be turned.
Unless they were turned during one of his absences, they had to be renegades. And the Council’s law on renegade Bachiyr was quite clear: terminate immediately. It would be a nice distraction before he went back to looking for Theron and Taras.
Ramah leaned against a wall and cleared his throat loudly. Both renegades turned to face him. Even the woman looked up. When she saw Ramah her face lit with such hope that Ramah couldn’t help but chuckle. Doubtless she thought he was there to save her. Once he killed the other two Bachiyr she would be his next meal. It was nice of them to tenderize her first.
“Go away,” one of the vampires said. “This doesn’t concern you.”
“Wait, Elias,” the other said. “”We’ll need as much blood as we can get for later, right?”
“True,” Elias replied, grinning. “I guess he can stay after all, Brecht.”
The one called Brecht turned his body around to face Ramah and bared his teeth. “Don’t worry,” he said. “This won’t hurt much.”
Ramah almost laughed. This was going to be fun.
***
Taras and his new ally dragged Theron through the tavern district. They held him up between them, making him look like a drunk being helped home by his friends. They needn’t have bothered with the ruse, the streets of Londinium were all but deserted, with only the moon to keep them company.
“How much farther?” Taras asked, wanting to get this over with. Despite his desire to kill Theron, the woman made him nervous.
“Right over there,” Lannis said, pointing. “In that alley.”
Taras looked. About thirty yards away was a narrow opening between two ramshackle taverns. Just beyond it, on the city’s skyline, he could see the faint lightening of the horizon that signaled the upcoming dawn. He hoped Lannis had a place to wait out the daylight hours.
Before they reached the alley they heard a shout of pain, immediately followed by a severed head bouncing out of the darkness and into the street. Taras froze, noting the sharp fangs in the dead, rolling face. Another vampire?
He turned to Lannis, but her expression showed just as much confusion as he felt. She blinked, then said, “Brecht?”
The head rolled by without responding, of course, and her face soon changed from confused to angry. She dropped Theron’s shoulder, sending half his torso into the dirt. The claws on her hands extended outward. She snarled and took a step toward the alley.
Just then a body flew out in a splatter of crimson and flesh. The smell of blood hit Taras’s nostrils like a hurricane, nearly bowling him over. The body landed hard in the street, and Taras noted that despite the many rips and tears, this one’s head was still attached. When one of the arms moved, and the victim tried to pull himself away from the alley, Taras guessed he probably wished he wasn’t living, after all.
“Elias!” Lannis yelled. “What is happening here? I left you-”
Her voice trailed off as a figure stepped from the alley entrance. Taras stared in awe. He’d seen this vampire once before, in Jerusalem. He didn’t know much about the elder vampire except that Theron had seemed terrified of him. Lannis, too, had stopped in her tracks.
“Ramah,” she whispered.
Ramah. Another Council Member. Good. He would see Taras helping Lannis to bring Theron to justice. That could only expedite things for him.
At the sound of his name, Ramah turned to face them. Taras steeled himself against the dark visage. Ramah stood drenched in the blood of two vampires that Taras could only assume were renegades like himself. Maybe they’d attacked Ramah while he waited in the alley. Judging by the results, it was very poor judgment on their part.
When Ramah’s eyes settled on him, Taras felt a shiver crawl up his spine. The smile on that bloody face didn’t look friendly at all.
“You,” Ramah said. “Taras, isn’t it?”
Taras nodded.
Ramah chuckled. “Is that Theron with you?”
Taras nodded again. “I’ve been working with Councilor Lannis to bring him to justice.” Taras motioned to his right, where Lannis had been standing when Ramah stepped out of the shadows.
But she wasn’t there.
Ramah chuckled. “Really? Where is she, Taras?”
Taras let go of Theron’s wrist and backed away a few steps. “She was right here. Didn’t she tell you about our deal?”
“Deal?” Ramah’s voice sounded light. Amused.
Shit. He could tell by Ramah’s bemused smirk that the Councilor thought he was lying. Where the hell was Lannis? She should be helping him, not disappearing. Now he was in real danger. He made ready to run, not wanting any part of another fight with Ramah. The last time he’d fought the elder vampire, only the interference of the people near Jerusalem’s Damascus Gate had saved him. This time the streets were empty, and he had no doubt who would prove the victor. He turned and sprinted for a side street.
Before he’d gone ten paces Ramah stood in front of him, materializing as if from the very air itself. Taras couldn’t stop, so he ducked his head and charged, hoping to surprise Ramah and bowl his way past.
It felt like he ran into a stone wall. He bounced off Ramah’s torso in a fit of stars and pain, and for a moment the whole world disappeared. The next thing he knew, he was lying in the street, dizzy and confused, while a shadow crossed his face. He looked up just in time to see Ramah’s clawed hand skewer his throat. The pain flared through his body like fire, and as Ramah lifted Taras off the ground by his ripped and bleeding neck, he smiled.
“Not this time, Taras.” Ramah said. “You will not escape me again.”
Taras coughed and choked on the blood pooling in his throat. He knew he would not live to see the moon again.
Ramah reached back with his other hand and punched forward, sending his second set of claws into Taras’s gut. Taras screamed at the searing pain in his belly, but no sound came out. The entire street had gone deathly silent. He knew what that meant. Ramah had cast a psalm to keep from waking the city’s inhabitants.
Taras reached out with a trembling hand and tried to swat at Ramah’s arm, but it did no good. Ramah batted his hand away as though he were a fly. Then Ramah brought his face to Taras’s neck and tore into his flesh. The pain was intense, but mercifully short. Soon Taras felt nothing at all other than a heavy tiredness that he’d never experienced before. He saw the lightening glow on the horizon and wondered if Ramah would manage to kill him before the sun peeked over the rooftops. Then there was nothing.
***
In a large but drafty tent many miles from Londinium, Boudica’s youngest daughter, Lannosea, watched her mother sleep. The Queen’s twin braids spread out on t
he pillow around her head. Lannosea sighed. Even in repose her mother’s face looked angry and violent, as though she could wake at any moment and sever an enemy’s head with a single swing. Before her father’s death, her mother was regarded as one of the most beautiful women in the Iceni lands and beyond. It was hard to reconcile that once lovely face with the constant frown the queen now wore even in her dreams.
Lannosea twisted her hair in her hands. She had the striking pale yellow hair of the Iceni, and like her mother, she wore it long. Lannie’s hair reached to her waist. But unlike Boudica, her hair cascaded down her back freely rather than in braids. She grabbed a handful of it, remembering the feel of the thick braids down her back. Those days were gone for her. Braids like her mother’s were meant for battle. Lannosea’s hair would never be braided again. She wished she could say the same for her mother and sister, but these days both of them wore their braids constantly, even sleeping in them most nights.
The Trinovante were of little help. Their lust for blood was nearly as great as Boudica’s own. Ditto her sister. They all called to her, tried to tell her how wonderful things would be once the Romans were defeated and driven from Iceni lands. They all seemed to think their lives would return to normal.
Lannosea closed her mother’s bed curtain and walked out of the royal tent, heading for her own less spacious accommodations. Tears fell from her sky blue eyes as she walked. Unlike her companions, she didn’t believe in their righteous desire to avenge the wrongs done to her people. They could talk all they want about returning to normal, but Lannosea knew the truth. No matter the outcome of tomorrow’s battle, or the one after that, or even the one after that, “normal” was forever a thing of the past.
She rubbed her belly, glad for the loose fitting gown that hid her shame from her mother’s ever angry eyes. Four months. Soon she would no longer be able to hide the truth. What would her mother say, then? Would she cast her out? Have her executed? Both seemed possible with the way Boudica’s temper had turned.
No, she thought, shaking her head sadly. Things will never be normal again.
***
This changes everything, she thought. I will need a new plan.
She sat in the shadows of an abandoned cellar which she had appropriated for her own use. The place was secure against sunlight and intrusion, and should serve her needs through the upcoming day. The bare floor would not be comfortable, but it would not be the worst place she had slept. Thousands of years of hiding from the Council of Thirteen had seen her spend the day in places that made this dry, empty cellar seem like a palace.
But all that was about to end. Ramah was in Londinium! That could only mean the Council had opened a portal in the city and they knew Taras or Theron would be here. Possibly both. Herris would take any opportunity to capture either of them, but both? He was probably foaming at the bit when he sent Ramah. If he knew she was in the city, as well, he would probably have come himself instead of sending Ramah.
Damn. Ramah. Had he seen her? No, she didn’t think so. If he had, he would most certainly have come after her. Thankfully that had not occurred. A small blessing, but she would take it. The Blood Letter did not know she was in the city.
But Theron did. And the former Enforcer would no doubt tell Ramah about her presence at his first opportunity.
But was that really such a bad thing?
She sat at the table and thought about her next move. Perhaps Theron was right where she needed him to be. Once Ramah learned of her presence he would no doubt come looking for her. All she had to do was avoid him long enough to free Theron and lead him out of the city. Ramah had probably brought a Lost One to guard the two prisoners during the day, but that would be easy enough to deal with.
She would leave Taras behind. Ramah would want to question the Roman about Theron’s escape, and that would buy her a little more time. Just outside the city was a large forested area filled with oaks, maples, and many others, and she wanted to be there by the time the Blood Letter caught up. It was the perfect place for an ambush.
After tomorrow night she would never have to run from Ramah again.
11
When Theron opened his eyes, he found himself tied to a wooden bench with a length of thick rope. Around him stood the bare stone walls of an empty cell. There were no windows, but a draft tickled his right cheek. The air smelled of mold, and he guessed he was in a basement somewhere. He tried to raise his shoulders and shift the rope aside, but it held fast. Under normal circumstances, he would have been able to break it, but his head felt odd and his muscles lacked their normal strength.
What had that bitch done to him?
A groan to his left caught his attention, and he noticed Taras hanging from a set of manacles. Not surprising, considering who he’d chosen as a new ally.
Serves you right, you bastard, he thought. That’s what you get for trusting the likes of her.
Theron thought about the female vampire from last night. He hadn’t seen her in a very long time. Not since the last time he’d had to hunt for her. That one time was enough. She’d almost killed him. If Ephraim hadn’t been there to stop her, he would surely have died. If she was in the city then he really needed to get away. Fast. He tried again to break the ropes, or at least the table under him, but it was no use.
“Where are we?” Taras asked, his voice a whisper. Theron ignored him. His mind whirred through the room, trying to think of a way out of this mess. Try as he might, however, he couldn’t escape the simple truth. He was tied to a table with rope almost as thick as his wrist, and he was too damned weak to rip a sheaf of papyrus.
“Is it getting colder in here?” Taras again. He was getting annoying.
Still, now that his attention had been drawn to it, he did notice the temperature in the room dropping. It didn’t affect him physically, since Bachiyr are immune to cold, but the sudden drop didn’t bode well. Only two things could account for it. A cold psalm from another Bachiyr, or the presence of a Lost One. Since Taras was the only other Bachiyr in the room, and he wasn’t whispering words of magic, Theron guessed it to be the second. But that was not possible, either.
A Lost One meant the Council. But the Council would not be working with Taras. They would have simply captured or killed him on sight. And they certainly wouldn’t be working with Taras’s new friend.
When the door to the room opened and a single, shrouded hand came into view, Theron knew the truth. A tattered Lost One stepped into the dim room.
“Damn,” Taras said. “I was hoping I’d never see one of those things again.”
“Me too,” Theron replied, forgetting in his surprise that he didn’t owe Taras any words.
The Lost One stood in the doorway, facing the two prisoners. It wore the tattered black robes of its station. Through the holes in the cloth, Theron could see the millions of insect larvae squirm and writhe as they feasted on the thing’s decaying body. The curse of the Lost One is that there will always be enough flesh to feed the parasites and keep the creature mobile, but no more. They literally rotted away while they were still alive. The sight of them made Theron’s insides churn, and not just for the obvious reasons. The situation was more ominous than he’d feared.
The thing’s presence meant the Council was here. But why? And why were they working with “Where is Lannis?” Taras asked. Theron assumed he was talking to the Lost One.
The creature turned its head toward the onetime Roman legionary. If Theron didn’t know better, he’d have sworn the thing smiled. It stepped slowly toward Taras, walking with an unholy grace, and pressed its larvae-covered right hand on the vampire’s forehead. Theron knew what would come next, he’d seen it hundreds of times.
Taras's scream filled the small chamber, bouncing off the walls in a high pitched wail that stung Theron's hypersensitive ears. Ordinarily, he would have enjoyed the other Bachiyr's pain, especially if he was the cause of it. But it was hard to smile when he knew he was probably next.
“Hello, Ther
on,” said a voice from the doorway. He didn’t have to turn his head to know who it belonged to. He’d heard that voice regularly for over nine hundred years. Of course, that had been in another lifetime, when he was the hunter and not the hunted.
“Hello Ramah,” he said, leaving off the customary Councilor. He turned his head to face the elder Bachiyr. “What brings you to Londinium?”
Ramah laughed, then his eyes flitted toward the Lost One, who was still working on Taras. The Roman’s screams had died down to a pathetic whimper. Having worked around the Lost Ones for centuries, Theron knew their capabilities as well as any. He could almost feel pity for his rogue progeny. Almost. But since it was pretty much Taras’s fault they were in this situation, he couldn’t quite manage it.
“I can’t believe I found both of you here. Together,” Ramah said. “This couldn’t have been any easier.”
“Go to hell.”
“Not today.” Ramah crossed the room and placed his hands on either side of Theron’s head. Theron winced as the elder’s claws elongated and dug into his skin. Ramah forced Theorn’s face up, probably so he could look him in the eye. Theron would have tried to resist, but he had no leverage and very little strength. “You will get to Hell long before I do,” Ramah promised. “But not before you beg me to send you there.”
With that, Ramah’s face hardened, and a sudden jolt of pain slammed into Theron’s body through his temples. All sight and sound vanished in an instant, leaving him in a world of bright red pain. He choked back a scream, certain his head had split open but determined not to give Ramah the satisfaction. The fire raged inside his head for what seemed like hours, though in truth it couldn’t have been that long.
When it finally eased, Ramah was laughing.
“No scream, Theron?”
